Chapter 27
“Your analogy with the chicken sandwich, how you stood up for yourself and didn’t beat yourself up for it afterward,” Wendy says, adjusting her long skirt over her legs as she shifts position. “That was really wonderful, Penny.”
“I’m not going to lie, it felt good. Like there was a Penny I didn’t know about, hiding out inside this shell, and when she comes out, she will fuck your shit up. Sorry about the cursing.”
“Not at all. You should say what you feel. Your awareness of yourself is growing, which is exactly what we want to see. But let’s pivot for a second, because I think this is related.
Let’s talk about your mom. Last time, we touched on your father leaving because she confronted him about his affair… ”
I shift uncomfortably. I just got an A+ in therapy, basically, and here Wendy is, about to give me a pop quiz I haven’t studied for. “Yeah.”
“Do you see any correlation between that discussion and this one?”
“I—” I pause, frowning. Mom demanded her chicken sandwich, didn’t she, when she told Dad she wasn’t going to take his cheating anymore?
When she told him she was embarrassed to show her face in town because of him.
And that chicken sandwich upended our lives.
Mom, bedridden. Me, fourteen, food shopping, cleaning the house, keeping Dad’s plants alive, telling the school they needed a substitute again because Mom wouldn’t be in.
Why was the chicken sandwich so awful for her but so good for me? Unless…
“For years now, I’ve heard from my mother about how terrible it was that she confronted my dad.
About her regrets.” I brush a tear from my eye, roughly.
“And maybe hearing it so much, hearing how it ruined her life, as shitty as that life was… Maybe that made it so that I never wanted to stick up for myself, either.”
Wendy’s close-lipped smile and slight nod tell me I’ve gotten a hole-in-one.
I set the plant I just bought—my new emotional support plant—on my end table, plumping the orange and gold leaves.
It perfectly complements the new throw pillows I ordered and the anticipation-of-autumn decorations I’ve busted out for the mantel of my faux fireplace.
Just because I’m living in a construction zone doesn’t mean I can’t be festive. And basic. Festively basic!
Jack looks up from the counter, where he’s eating a bowl of cereal. “Won summary judgment, by the way. Case goes forward. Sophie is ecstatic.”
“That’s amazing! I’m so happy!” A warmth spreads through me. There’s something strangely intimate about the way he casually shared something about his day as if we were mid-conversation.
His brow furrows. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s…” Might as well say it since I already told him I’m working on myself. “Had a rough go of it in therapy. That’s all.”
Jack nods but thankfully does not pry. He’s already started to tackle the wood framework for the wall, I note. The sight leaves me feeling a bit sorry for myself, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m still feeling fragile after that power session.
Jack waves a paper to get my attention and drops it on the granite countertop. “Gence slipped this under my door. Three weeks left to tell him if you’re going to buy your place if you haven’t already.”
I inspect the floor of my entryway. “He didn’t slip anything under mine.”
“Well, you’ve been trying to put him into a diabetic coma for the last several years, so…”
I harrumph and set about watering my new plant.
“I was, you know. Jealous.”
I tip my head to the side, feeling like I’ve wandered into a conversation I’m not a party to. “Come again?”
“Didn’t the first time.”
“Ba dum tish.” I roll my eyes and make a drum sound.
“I said I was jealous. The little actor was right.” He stares right at me when he says it, no shame in his molten silver gaze as he lazes back against his counter.
My mouth becomes a perfect O of wonder. That tiny confession sends my pulse galloping. My apartment grows ten degrees warmer from one moment to the next. “Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs. “Because I wanted you to know. You’re doing therapy, that’s great. I’m waiting patiently for you to figure things out. Doesn’t mean I don’t think of—”
“Jake Gyllenhaal.”
“What?”
“Nothing, continue.”
He frowns a little, looking a touch more hesitant than before. “I got jealous, was the moral of the story there.”
I want to squeal. I want to run to him, plop myself in his lap, and bring his lips to mine.
I want to rest my head against his chest and cry.
I want a whole lot of things. But today’s session with Wendy proved I’m far from okay as an individual, let alone ready to tackle being a pair.
So I squelch the feelings down, deep down into a lockbox I’ll paw through at night for fantasy fodder. And I resort to what I know: humor.
“He’s not little…” I cast a dreamy glance at the ceiling and sigh. “He’s divine. And very muscly.”
Jack chuckles. “I said I was jealous. But then again, he’s a better actor than you. He sold the attraction thing.”
“And I didn’t? Let me bust out some sonnets I’ve composed.”
“About me? I’m flattered. But I’d rather finish the wall. Grab that board.” Jack shakes his head, standing to set his dish in the sink.
I rush to change, and when I emerge, I have to resist the urge to dive back into my bedroom.
Jack. Is. Shirtless. Positioning a board vertically in his living room and marking something with a pencil on a post. My mouth feels like I’ve been sucking down saltines for days.
I stare. And stare some more. He’s fit, and he clearly works out, but he’s not a vanity-muscle kind of guy.
Lucas is that type, I realize—his as-seen-on-TV abs seem manufactured specifically to make you want to wash all your laundry against his chest like an old-timey country maid.
Jack, on the other hand, is just strong, but not in a showy way.
His body is lived-in. He has pizza and pancakes and laughs.
And honestly? It makes him feel more real, more substantive, more alive, somehow.
As a result of Jack’s dishabille, I spend a good chunk of time holding two-by-fours level for him to secure to other two-by-fours, while staring down at his head, or at his profile, or not-at-his-crotch when he’s up on a stepladder. Anywhere but at all that bare skin.
My buzzer sounds, and I gratefully abandon Jack, despite his complaints about crooked boards, to answer it.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Margie says. I buzz her in. A few minutes later she rushes inside, waving a magazine over her head before she notices the state of my apartment and shirtless Jack. “Oh. I forgot that construction-worker cosplay is your kink. Hi, Jack.”
Jack steps off his stepladder and reaches for his shirt. “Hey, Margie.”
She holds the magazine out to him, and he frowns, accepting it after pulling his T-shirt over his head. I mourn the loss of that bare chest. It occurs to me that he’s never felt compelled to remove his shirt before. Did he just strip for me? He totally did. Maybe. I think.
“I’m glad you two are here. Since that involves you both,” she says, tipping her chin toward the magazine.
Jack swears. I step over to him to see what he’s looking at.
I’m on the cover of the magazine, leaning on Lucas as we exit La’s. In a small inset photo, Lucas’s face sports extensive bruising. The lurid headline promises love triangles and violence.
“It’s all over the internet, too,” Margie says. She picks up the drill and gives it a whir, stopping when Jack glares at her.
I grab my phone off the counter and search with shaking hands.
Some articles make me out to be a Jessica Rabbit seductress, red in the head, fire in the bed.
I tremble. There are no photos of Jack, although one article shows the legal aid society he works for.
One outlet has printed the police report and leaked information from the hospital detailing Lucas’s injuries.
Another paints Jack as violent, citing a bar brawl on his record—the same fight he told me his friend Moth embroiled him in.
I sit down on my sofa. Oh, boy.
“Lucas is famous, but not like…DiCaprio famous. But I guess having your jaw wired shut and closing down a television production is big news. Plus, nothing else remotely interesting is happening, so…” Margie shakes her head, sitting next to me.
My phone rings. Mom. A faint tremble vibrates my fingers. I just want some space. I’ve had six missed calls from her. I decline the call and fall sideways so that my head is in Margie’s lap. “How do I fix this?” I moan.
She pats my head. “Ignore it. Some new scandal will hit, and it’ll be old news soon.”
I brush stray strands out of my eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask Jack.
He tosses the magazine down and runs both hands through his hair, rumpling it to holy hell.
“I don’t love that they have a picture of the office.
It’ll have a chilling effect on people coming by to ask for help, especially with immigration issues, if they think there are photogs hanging around.
And I don’t love that this is now the second time other people might be hurt by our association.
The glitter was whatever, but I had to set aside a court brief to deal with my inbox after the gag you pulled with all that spam. ”
Margie lifts her hand like a first grader tentatively volunteering to read aloud.
“I should mention, that was my fault. I told Penny I wanted to post your number on the Lucas fan forum, but she told me not to. I was drunk and irked enough to opt for an alternative.” She squints up at Jack, looking very contrite. “That’s my bad. I’m sorry.”